


You Do Not Disappoint.

by Lispet



Category: Homestuck
Genre: FTM Dave, Humanstuck, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lispet/pseuds/Lispet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aka self indulgent davekat</p><p>He's still staring at you, his milky red eyes are eerie, red in a different way to yours, yours are so brown they look a bit ruddy in some lights. They suit him, and there's so many ways you want to worship his body that he'll sneer at you for. <i>This is just sex Vantas. Get your head in the game.</i> And then when he's riding you he'll smirk down at you and say 'Wildcats' as you finish, and ruin it. You can't have nice things, because Dave isn't inherently nice. He's enough for you though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Do Not Disappoint.

**Author's Note:**

> fyi whilst some of this may seem dubcon i promise none of it is both parties are fully consenting  
> also also theyre both like 16 or 17 and like thats above the age of consent where i live but some people are sensitive because they arent 18
> 
> also includes mentions of drugs and alcohol but only in casual passing but just in case some of you dislike that kind of thing

The nights are icy cold and dark, at two in the morning where it hurts to breathe and your toes numb before you leave your driveway. You can't afford to complain or tarry and warm your hands though. Your father would string you up by your intestines and call it a day if he caught you sneaking out at night. You wouldn't even blame him, it's so fucking dangerous. 

Dave lives a couple of blocks away, and you jog half of the distance. His front yard is almost entirely bare dirt, and there are lights on. The living room, and you can see Bro reclined on the couch watching TV naked, the room cluttered with takeaway containers, some empty and some not, empty beer bottles, lined up meticulously alongside the couch, the desk, none of them get thrown out. You know. 

There's a girl asleep on the other couch, just as naked, and she's glistening in the shitty yellow lights, all spread out, handprint bruises on her thighs. It's kind of disgusting. Going to see Dave when you don't sneak in through his bedroom window is the worst thing. You have to go past Bro and smell the rest of the apartment and see the filth and squalor and you want to think of Dave as being above that, like he’s cleaner. Or something. So now you’re climbing up to the tiles on the first floor, to his bedroom window, which is the second source of light coming from the house. 

You can hear the dull thud of Dave's music issuing from his window. It doesn't shut properly, or lock, and in this dilapidated town, it doesn't matter his room's upstairs. It's dangerous, anyone could break in and hurt him, take what little he has, and you think this even as you're on the patio roof pushing his window open and slipping inside. 

Dave's room is little better than the rest of the house. At least the clutter in here is organised, jars of freaks on the shelves, interspersed with his collection of cans, clothes on the floor, photos pegged on strings hanging low from the ceiling in a twisted spiders web. 

He's drawing that shitty comic of his, bass pouring through his speakers, and you kick your shoes off, sockless already, because they just get in the way when you get here, you close his window and he doesn't react, not until you're standing behind him does he do a thing. He's even more washed out when he turns his desk chair around, the light off his computer screen making him look like some third rate fashion model, pasty and skeletal. 

He's not as skinny as the dramatic lighting leads you to believe. You know this too well. He's a good size, he fits between your hips and shoulders, eyes level with the bridge of your nose. But he's still skinnier than he should be. 

"Hey." His eyes are dull, unaided by the crappy fluorescent backlight, and he looks as tired as you feel. 

"Hey." You can't tell him off for not being asleep, not when you're here with him. 

You have some sort of ridiculous backwards Mexican standoff, because the outcome is undoubtedly good the moment one of you move. Neither of you are going to be bleeding out in the dust, but you're both too proud to really admit that you're doing this, that you have been for longer than you'd like to think, and you really do want this. You fucking want him more than anything. 

None of this is healthy. 

You can see it, five years from now nothing will be different, except you'll be doing this drunk, or high on some bullshit drug, because addictions don't start all of a sudden they build up, and this is just the start. 

He's still staring at you, his milky red eyes are eerie, red in a different way to yours, yours are so brown they look a bit ruddy in some lights. They suit him, and there's so many ways you want to worship his body that he'll sneer at you for. _This is just sex Vantas. Get your head in the game._ And then when he's riding you he'll smirk down at you and say 'Wildcats' as you finish, and ruin it. You can't have nice things, because Dave isn't inherently nice. He's enough for you though. 

There's so much you know about him that you shouldn't. He shamelessly knows Nikki Minaj's verse from Monster, and will rap it without fail if he hears it. He doesn't use shampoo. He tears the skin off the insides of his lips with his teeth, and chews his nails when he's stressed or worried. That scar in the crook of his elbow isn't from a strife like he claims, a dog bit him once. You were there when it happened. He gives blood religiously, once every three months, like clockwork, unless he's not allowed to. All of that and so much more. Things you really shouldn't know, considering your friends with benefits deal. What you know about him could fill an exercise book, and that level of knowledge should go along with a label like 'lovers', or 'partners'. 

That's not what you are. Dave asks you to come over when his brother brings someone home with him, and come you do. 

Ha. God you're fucking terrible. You hate yourself so much. You're going to hate yourself in five years time, just like you hated yourself five years ago. You're going to hate everything about yourself when you're fucking Dave and biting his neck and making him moan against your hair in ten minutes time because that's just what you do. 

Dave is the one to break the silence, because silence between the two of you is never long-lived. "Stop staring at me like that, Vantas. Someone might think you love me." 

Oh god, if only he knew. You take two steps, one to make the distance to him, and the other to slam him up against the wall with a loud thump. Bro doesn't care what happens, no matter how loud you get. You can draw all sorts of noises from Dave, from desperate, gurgled gasps for air, with your hands tight around his throat ( _come on Vantas I know you wanna do it. You wanna hear me shut up so you can talk about all that romantic bullshit you love. Go on you'd love the chance to finally have me gasping and begging for more_ ), to actual, genuine shouts of pleasure (one time, just once, Dave let you handcuff him and (even more rarely), let you give him head. He didn't beg when you teased him, but he nearly screamed when he came). 

He grins at you, his dry lips have cracked at the corner and there's the tiniest bead of blood. He licks it away, and you kiss him to bruise. His head thumps against the plaster with a hollow thump (was that the wall or his head?). You can hear him chuckling, muffle by your lips and teeth, and your hands are making his ribs creak like a rusty farm gate, you're pinning him to the wall so hard. 

You'll pin him to the bed next, when you're both undressed enough to fuck, like a butterfly on a cork-board, and he won't go quietly. He's stronger but you're heavier by far, because you get three square meals a day and he probably hasn't had a square meal in his life (that's a lie. Sometimes you can sneak your dinner here in a Tupperware container and watch him scarf your lamb chops and mashed potato and vegetables. He eats nearly anything). (He doesn't like pineapple on burgers and pizza. That's another thing for your exercise book). 

He's getting antsy, even though you're probably hurting him, so you quickly slide your hands under his shirt and singlet, icy against his mildly warm skin, and he yelps, blunt fingertips digging into the back of your neck, pulling your hair. He doesn't like to admit it but you know he loves your hair. He and Bro have the pasty white guy schtick happening, and you look as black as the ace of spades next to him, even if you're not really. He's so white he makes snow look grey, but that's just him. Bro's got a healthy tan, gold skin, no tan lines, so it's either natural, or he's as casual about nudity at three in the afternoon as he is in the morning. 

Oh god you can't imagine having a sunburnt dick. What if he puts sunscreen on it? You need to just stop holy shit. Dave's hands are a welcome distraction, and are thoroughly buried in your hair now, tight black ringlets curled around his fingers, and it pulls a little at your scalp but it just makes you groan against his mouth, and his smirk cracks the centre of his lip, and he licks your lips when he compulsively licks his. You wonder if he'd complain if you cut your hair short, or got it braided. Like your father would let you keep that for more than a day. He can't have you going around looking like a thug. God you hate the world. Maybe microbraids, just to keep it in check, because frizzled ringlets get in the way. You can't do anything with them really, not when you don't have the energy to do so. 

You finally back off him, your hands are warm, and you can curl your fingers without it hurting now. You kiss him once more specifically to bite his bottom lip gently, before you step away and pull your hoodie and shirt off. 

How undressed you get varies greatly. There have been some times where you've literally unbuttoned your pants, pulled his down a bit, and fucked him like that (god you hate calling it that you care about him too much for it to just be fucking), and there are times you've been naked, and he's been in aught but his singlet, with it rucked up to his armpits. That's the closest to naked you've been together. You're not complaining. You've seen more of him than anyone else has and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

It's his turn to get pushy, but when he tries to shove you onto his bed you plant your feet and divert him to the side, and he goes face first onto the messy sheets instead, and you're on top of him in a flash, hands on his shoulders and knees on each side of his thighs, rubbing your crotch against his ass. 

He's not much of an ass guy, which you understand. You're not either which makes everything a whole lot easier, but the concept of it still makes him groan against the rumpled blanket. You don't know if it's the threat of pain or the humiliation that gets him going. 

He thrashes under you and you sit up higher so he doesn't hit your nose with the back of his head. Not that it would stop either of you. It's been countless times where either one or both of you have dripped blood onto his sheets. There's a reason you don't do this at your place. Several actually. 

You share a wall with your brother, your dad doesn't particularly like the Striders in general, even though Dave's been nothing short of charming to your family when he's around. And you wouldn't be able to explain away the stained sheets, how your room would end up smelling a little of sex, and pot and cigarettes (you think they're from Bro). 

Holding him down is no mean feat. He fights dirty, twists and writhes, tries to bite and pull your hair. You've copped it in the groin before. He's careful with that now, at least. You think he was disappointed you couldn't fuck him that night, never mind that you still had him whimpering on your fingers, demanding you go faster and harder. He didn't even care that you'd forgotten to cut your nails right short. You cut him, and since then you haven't forgotten the gut wrenching panic when you pulled your fingers from him, slick not with just lubricant, but spots of blood too. You chew your nails now, just in case, and you can't think of reasons to give your dad explaining your newest habit. You can't exactly front up and say 'yeah hey dad it's just because I might go out past curfew tonight and finger my best friend. I'm not sure. It's no big deal.' 

He's wearing trackies, and you plant one hand firmly in the middle of his back and use the other to yank them down his hips with his underwear, push them down as far as you can before your legs are in the way. If you didn't know better you'd think he didn't want this, by his struggling, but this is exactly why he does this with you. He likes the effort, you've tried taking the fight out of it, only for him to lose interest very quickly. 

But sometimes the fight makes things very difficult, especially when you need to unbutton your jeans without him accidentally hurting you, so you smack him across the ass and tell him to stay still. 

And he does. He goes too still. 

"Get off." He hisses, fingers clenched in the sheets. "Get the fuck off me." 

You scramble to obey, and he pulls his pants up and rolls over to keep you in his sight. 

His cheeks are flushed with effort, chest heaving with as much again, and he's actually angry. Like he's genuinely, might punch you in the face, angry. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you, so you're standing there in a bit more of a Mexican standoff thing than before, because if feels like if you do something wrong, then you don't lose your fuckbuddy. You lose your best friend. 

You try not to fidget and wait for him to break the silence. You figure he didn't like something, but you're not a mind reader. You can't just not do something he isn't okay with unless he tells you what it is! 

"Don't do that." He says. "Ever again. Just don't fucking." He stops, and he's not just angry, he's scared. "Okay? This is me taking a giant stick and drawing the line in the fucking sand. Don't slap me. Ever." 

You nod, and swallow. "Sorry." You have to apologise, you can't risk doing even the tiniest thing wrong here. "I won't. I promise." You don't expect another chance tonight. You'll probably have to go home now, and you won't blame him. It'd probably safer for you if you did go right now. Less chance of getting caught when you sneak back in. 

Dave nods, as though you've met his minimum standard of apology, and his posture relaxes. Right now, there's nothing you want to do more than kneel before him and worship every joint, every point where his skin stretches taut over bone, up his spine, the softness between hip and rib. Sex is secondary, and that scares you. 

"C'mere. I'm being the merciful bouncer of Club Nook de Strider. Come inside and dance a lil'. I'm dripping pre down my thighs." His legs fall apart a fraction, and you're kneeling between them in a flash, before he changes his mind (despite how fucking lame he sounds. He's shameless, says whatever he thinks will work, except what when everything works?). His singlet is rucked up and there's a small bruise protruding from his trackies, up over his hip, and you're not certain whether it's a couple of hickeys or an actual bruise. If it's the former, you didn't put them there. You never leave more than one in the same spot. Your hands curl around his hips, thumbs alongside the points of the bone. You're angry, jealous even, at the thought that someone else has had their mouth, their hands, on Dave. That some not quite faceless person, probably someone you know, might have heard what Dave sounds like with his voice muffled in the pillow. Your hands are vices around his hips, and in a fit of childish spite, you hope it bruises. You hope that Dave can feel this, can feel your touch echoing through his body for days. 

You're not even angry at Dave. You've got no grounds. You're not dating him, as much as you'd like to be (despite all of his jokes about not being an easy lay. He is. If he likes you enough and you express some modicum of interest, he'll give anything to you, he's so desperate, so touch starved). You can't be mad at him if he's fucking someone else on the side. Maybe you're the one on the side and he's dating someone else. 

That makes you angrier. 

You scrape your teeth down his abs, they clink against his navel piercing. You bite the profusion of his other hipbone, and push him more firmly against the blankets. They're kind of thin, and in desperate need of a wash. Does your father know you go out and see Dave despite never have being caught, just from the smell Dave's sheets on you? Maybe. He doesn't care that you do see Dave, that Dave comes over and you kiss him. It's that you go out in the dead of night that would bother him. 

Right now, having your mouth any lower is an impossibility. He's still got his pants on, so you have to move from between his legs to divest him of them. His trackies have holes where his thighs rub together, are dirty at the ankle, and are probably two sizes too big for him. 

He helps you kick them off, narrowly missing kicking you in the motion, and then grabs at your pants. "C'mon Vantas. I ain't gonna fuck myself." 

"God, just shut up Strider." You hiss, slapping his hands away so you can do it yourself. You shove your jeans and underwear off, and this is it. This is as naked as it gets between the two of you. You reposition yourself between Dave's legs, slide your hands up his waist to his ribs, and then back down, over his hips to his thighs. You press his legs further apart, holding them there with your thighs, and then without further preamble, shove two fingers into him roughly. 

He wasn't joking, he's wet enough to keep three garden beds and a pot plant alive all summer, and you can see his abs flexing a little as he tightens around your fingers, trying to wordlessly convince you that your dick should be there instead. You don't change a thing, just smirk down at him and rock your hips between his spread thighs, a totally unfulfilling action, because your hard dick just bobs a little between his legs. His eyes track the movement desperately, and then flit up to your face, skipping the tiniest amount of pudge at your waist in favour of scowling at you. 

The expression is wiped clean off his face when your thumb presses down on the piercing above his clitoris, where it goes through the thin, delicate tissue. He told you what it was called once, vertical something, you don't remember. You just remember why he got it, (with a fake ID and all, because he's not eighteen yet), and that when you press on it, slide your fingers over it slowly, he comes apart at the seams. 

"Oh god." His voice is ragged and breathy, he's embarrassed by it but he sounds beautiful when he's not trying to hide anything. Tonight, you don't plan on fucking him, despite his expectations and desires. Instead, you're going to keep him like this, squirming on your fingers, back arched. He actually whimpers when you press your hand down on his stomach, right above his pelvis where it's soft. 

You owe him so much for letting you to this to him, even though he thinks you're coming out on top (both literally and figuratively). _You're the one who gets to fulfil every guys wet dream at the drop of a hat Vantas. We both get what we want here, so hurry up and fuck me._ He gets what he wants, every time. You? Not so much. 

"C'mon Karkat." He squirms again and you plant your hand more firmly in his belly. He rarely says your name. You refuse to change what you're doing. He goes silent for a few beats, the music still thrumming from his speakers, before speaking up again, expression less sure, or as unsure as you can get when someone is jerking you off. "Don't you want this?" You know he's really asking if you actually want him or not. He's so insecure. You want him more than he knows. You'd never stop if you could. You wouldn't do this, actually. And it's not because you don't want him. It's because you want him too much. You know part of how you feel about him isn't right. You think he deserves to be on some sort of pedestal, despite all the fucked up shit in his life, but that's not really what he is, as a person. He's more than the idea you've got of him, but when you can see him like this, and see everything he thinks is wrong with himself, you think he's perfect, and you can hardly see past that even though you know you should. 

There's a lull in the music, where the treble dips and the baseline hums along. You lean up and kiss him, probably too gently (stop wearing your heart on your sleeve you idiot), hand still between his legs, and he bites your lip viciously. You draw back, stung, and sit on your heels, hands coming off him. 

"I can't do this." You say, chest tight. 

He glances down from your face to your dick for a fleeting second. "Yeah you can. Unless my eyes deceive me, lil' Vantas junior is very in on this." 

"Okay, first of all don't call my dick that." You snap, hands balling into fists on your thighs. 

"Oh, we're doing lists? I've got a good priority one, list topper. Fuck me." 

"I don't want to." The words fly out of your mouth like bullets from a gun, for all you can do to stop them. Dave stares at you. You stare at Dave. The music goes on, unimpeded despite the (not at all) momentous occasion of your huge mistake. 

"That's. I didn't." You fumble with words, trying to find the right ones. That's not what you meant. You don't want to just fuck him. 

"Get out." He murmurs. The room feels like ice, and you feel sick. What is your problem? You don't move, frozen between his legs. Statuesque. "I said get out!" He yells, eyes narrowed at you. He's not quite looking at your face, eyes more level with your collarbones. 

You still don't move, and he kicks you off the bed, heel in your stomach. 

You cough and splutter once you get your bearings on the floor, there's one of his multitudes of cables under your thigh and it digs in horribly. You probably deserve it. You still complain. 

"What the hell? That was totally unnecessary, you incessant whirling pool of rusty thumbtacks and nettle!" Not your best. You shoot to your feet and your head spins, leaving you dizzy. Your dick has wilted almost completely, partly from the unexpected pain, but mostly because you know that Dave's angry. That Dave might not talk to you ever again. 

"Yeah, and so was eight months of great sex, apparently!" He retorts, having already pulled a blanket over his lap to conceal himself. And he what? Does he really think that? "You never thought, even once to tell me that you weren't into this? Did you ever actually want to fuck me? No one knows! You're a veritable mystery, your true sexuality veiled beneath several opaque layers of bullshit and smack talk about your sexuality!" 

You don't really have much conducive to say. (Because really, he's probably right). 

That's never stopped you before. "Well it's not like you've been perfectly transparent about your side of things either! What even is this? At first I thought you called me whenever you wanted to fuck, but then I noticed that your brother always has someone over whenever you call, so I don't even know if it's me you want, or if I'm just someone you use to try and convince your brother you're not as lame as you really are!" 

He opens his mouth to reply but you're not done. 

"And okay, so say I'm doing this because you did ask me to, and because I feel that, in some fucked up way, as your best friend, I kind of owe it to you. If only to make you feel good about yourself, or to make you happy, I don't know. Would I really come here without fail every time you asked? Fuck no. Okay? I want this, I want you. But it isn't right. What I want is fucked up and just proves that I do have a neat laundry list of problems because I _keep coming back_." No matter how many times you tell yourself that next time you'll tell him the truth, that next time you'll do this on your terms or not at all and treat him the way he deserves, your hands on his thighs, sliding up his sides under his singlet as far as he'll allow, mouth gentle on his and at his neck, hips only just barely rocking against his. Sex for the intimacy, not the pleasure. 

Now you're finished. 

"Oh yes, thank you for clearing that all up, Karkat. Suddenly, I can see the light. This all makes so much sense after that concise, perfect explanation there!" Fuck you hate that mocking tone. You want to make him shut up. 

"Well it was fucking better than you! All I've gotten from all, what did you say, eight months of this?" Shit yeah it has been eight months. You can still remember the first night, down to the date. You're a man obsessed. "Is that you just want me to come over, fuck you, and then leave. What makes me different to any other person who'd wanna fuck you? Because the way you talk I'm pretty fucking replaceable." For all you care right now he can find a rubber dick and fuck that for the rest of his life. You're sick of these bullshit not-quite-one night stands. 

And you've actually rendered him speechless. You bite the inside of your lip and find your clothes. Underwear and jeans on. They're cold because they've been on his floor. You can't find your shirt so you forgo it in favour of just pulling your hoodie on and finding your shoes. The music stops, and you realise you didn't even notice Dave move. 

You disgust yourself. You don't want to spend longer than you have to here. That wasn't how you wanted to tell him everything. You'd had better plans in mind. 

Despite yourself, or maybe to spite yourself, you linger at the window, one hand braced above you on the frame, facing the open gap onto the cracked roof tiles, the lichen pale splotches against the red clay. 

"Karkat." Dave says softly. 

You don't turn around. You don't want to. You're honestly don't know if you can. You don't want to, or can't, leave either. Or say anything. He takes your silence as an invitation to fill it. "You're wrong." That nearly makes you scoff and go off on another rant. Either way, the snort you make isn't quite smothered. "Oh, what, did you want to hear that you're right? Then what? You're kind of setting yourself up to fail, you prick." You don't move at all. You're going to listen to what he has to say, and then leave. "But I mean at least then I'd be stroking your ego, right? Because that's all you care about." Did he actually just not hear any of what you said? If anything it makes your point more valid. 

"Okay. Fine. Just leave. It ain't like you've ever actually even tried talking it out. I suppose I should feel honoured that you've even stuck around to listen to someone else's opinion." 

Your hand tightens on the window at his words. "Yeah. I will." You spit. "Don't bother calling again. I don't think this is gonna work." You shift your weight forwards to climb out the window. 

"God, Karkat will you at least look at me if you're gonna dump me?" You spin around, mouth already half open to snap at him. _I can't dump you if there's nothing between us._ Or maybe. _I don't wanna dump you, you ass. Not everything is about you and your manpain._

You just end up looking like something that is very shocked and surprised. Because that is what you are, and you're actually drawing a blank. Your brain's gone to shit goddamn what is Dave even playing at? 

His hands curl in the hem of the shirt he's wearing. _Your_ shirt (fuck he loves his cliches). (You know you won't get this shirt back, you won't ask for it and your father will ask where it is and you'll shrug and say you must've left it at a friend's. Which isn't really a lie.). But even more than that, he hasn't put anything else on. You'd think he was trying to preserve modesty, but his shirt is right there on the bed, with the stretched out collar and the sleeves that have shrunk in the wash so they don't quite sit at his wrists anymore. Also you've buried your face between his legs once before, and you'd love to do it again. So modesty is a nope. 

Elsewhere, in another time (elsewhen?), you're actually happy and Dave stays at your house for the weekend and you get to kiss from his mouth to his navel and back, you get to hold him in your lap whilst you watch a movie, or actually take him out on a date. Kiss him in front of your friends at school. 

He's still looking at you, waiting for an answer. "Well. Are you gonna dump me?" You can tell he means to sound like he doesn't care, or like he's still angry, but you can tell he's just upset and frightened. 

What do you even tell him? "I didn't think this was serious." God that was stupid why do you let yourself out of the house? He flinches and yeah that wasn't right. "Sorry, but you only ever call when you wanna fuck, and then that's all it literally is. Most of the time it feels like you don't even want to, the way you fight." That's where you stop, hold everything back for now. Essentially, you've reached the epicentre of the problem. Everything else now is secondary until you sort this out. "I don't know where you got that this is a relationship. It's not, it never was. There's a lot more to relationships than rubbing dicks together and calling it a day." 

"Oh, so this _is_ my fault? That's what you're saying? Goddamn. If this is the level of reasoning you're giving then I'm not surprised you think I'm solely at fault here." He's back to angry, and he steps closer to jab you in the chest. "You never said once that you wanted anything but what we were doing, so you can shut the fuck up about whether relationships are more than sex. I started this, which wasn't even what I expected, and I thought, yeah, this is Karkat, he can't be so phenomenally stupid as to think this doesn't mean anything. Except you never wanted anything else so I thought it was just sex to you." He stumbles over 'phenomenally', he's always had trouble with that word. "And by that point it wasn't like I could exactly ask about it." He finishes, snappy and short. 

You've both fucked up, you more so than him. And you don't know how to move on from here. You're both too proud to fix this the easy way. You don't want to lose him. Part of you just wants to grab him and fuck him. (And what if he's just winding you up to make you angry?) You know he likes it to hurt so he doesn't have to hurt himself. But that would just prove his words. The rest of you wants to ask him for time and space, with an occasional splattering of some sort of contact. Physical or online or text or whatever. 

Maybe you can pretend this whole sham never happened, and then start over, do this properly. You'll take him out to see a movie, and then bring him home and kiss him silly, and let him wear your clothes in the morning, Kankri's sensibilities be damned. 

But neither of you will apologise until the other does first, and then you know you'll both argue over who should actually be sorry, and then it'll be okay. You might cry. You decide you might as well be the bigger man and go first. 

Except Dave seems to have the same idea. 

"I'm sorry." You both say at the same time. And gosh, stalemates are your jam tonight, because you both fall silent. The slight breeze is cold at your back, and Dave shivers across from you, so of course it's logical to shut the window again. 

Somehow those two words are enough for now. The tension has sapped from the room, and you just want to hold him now. So you do. You step closer, and he steps closer, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly and pull him against you, just as his arms wrap around your waist tightly and pulls you against him. It's easier when he's closer, to apologise, because you know he won't rebuff you now. He's holding you and he's making everything better, so you kiss his temple and stand there with him for a moment before apologising again, more properly. 

"Fuck. I'm so sorry Dave." Is all you get out before he stomps on your foot to shut you up. You scowl a little but squeeze him to let him know you got the memo. "Can we lay down?" You ask quietly. 

He nods and lets you go, so you let him go, and you both quite independently sit on the bed. Another thing about him that he doesn't like to admit but he definitely is, is that he's snuggly. You'd almost say that he really just wants close touch and physical affection, and that that's the only reason he's so eager to fuck all the time. As far as he's concerned, or his brother is really, sex is the only form of contact that isn't childish or weak. Bro makes you feel sick sometimes (all the time). His everything is just not right to raise a kid, from the overly sexual atmosphere (puppets included), to his stoicism and almost blind worship of bullshit day to day practices. 

Dave instantly kicks his feet up and leans back against his pillow. He has four on the bed, two of which are never touched. Of the other two, one he sleeps on, and the other he sleeps with. It's cute, the way he wraps himself around the beat up pillow. He would punch you in the guts if you said that to his face. You sit next to him on the unused side of the bed, by the wall. Threadbare plush toys get crushed or shift under your weight, and Dave slides sideways to lean against you. 

You're weary. Exhausted, knackered, emotionally drained. You don't know how you got to this point with Dave. (You do). The argument was bound to happen sooner or later, because you're both hellbent on paths of mutually assured, general miserableness. If you were less caring you would've said some horrible, terrible things to Dave. You could've cut him to the quick. Torn the metaphorical ligaments off his metaphorical bones until he's a useless mess. It might actually be an improvement from where he is at the moment. You've been dancing this tango for far too long with him, and you want a break. You want to be a sappy romantic with him, and you want him to enjoy it. 

"Are you still going to fuck me?" He asks, completely out of the blue. This is not what you mean by you want a break. His voice is quiet but steady. Resigned. He expects you to say no. 

You do not disappoint. "No." 

He really does seem to try to not to react, hands curling into fists in your shirt, his legs shifting restlessly. You try to pretend you don't notice, even when he shifts and stands. You're really wallowing in too much guilt and self loathing to pay too much attention anyway, until he swings his knee over your lap and settles his weight on your thighs. Suddenly you're definitely paying attention to him. 

He says nothing, just loops his arms around your neck and hesitates. Your shirt is too big on him and he's too light in your lap and you don't think about any of that, just of how beautiful he is when you lean forwards and kiss him, as sweet as you've always wanted to. 

Even better, he kisses back. He kisses back and doesn't bite at your mouth, doesn't pull your hair or make it a fight for someone to lose. "Can we just fuck once more then?" He asks, words obscured and distorted against your lips. "Before we stop?" 

It's then you realise that he doesn't differentiate the hard and fast punishment from what you'd deem sex. To him it's all or nothing, and that's the bottom line. 

You seize his waist and hold him away from you, to look at him. "Get dressed." You murmur. You know his brother won't give a shit if Dave vanishes, you don't really know what time of morning it is now and don't particularly fancy getting caught out just as you might be making things better with Dave, so you think your only option is to go home, take Dave with you because you can't stop this now. You want to show him how you feel, show him you're not ready to give this up yet. That there are more ways to have sex that rough and violent, and that all of them are just as good. Show him how much you still love him even if the sex isn't what he's growing up thinking sex should be like. 

You pull your shoes back on to miss his reaction, but when you turn to him again he's dressed and looking at you. 

"C'mon." You murmur. 

 

Your house is dead silent, unnervingly so when you get back, and Dave traipses through like that isn't a problem at all, but manages it quieter than you do so you have no grounds to get angry, but you still do. You tamp it down. You close and lock the front door, and then close your bedroom door. When you turn around Dave is already getting undressed, pushing his pants down and you nearly speak too loudly when you ask him what he's doing. 

"Undressing." He says it like it's obvious, like of course this is what we're doing. Are you stupid Karkat? 

"You don't have to." You tell him, quieter. 

"What, so this is literally the most pointless booty call in existence?" He does stop undressing, at least, even if he does sound offended. 

"I never said that." You sit on your bed and kick your shoes off. "C'mere." You pat the bed beside you and he sits quite obediently. 

A little shuffling and awkward negotiation gets you both horizontal and laying on your sides, face to face. A little more shuffling and you're cupping his neck with one hand and his waist with the other, and kissing him how you've always dreamed. 

It feels liquid, he feels soft and malleable, and you suck lightly on his top lip for a second, before sliding your hand under his shirt and across his lower back. He arches fluidly against you, mouth opening a fraction. 

You're worried he's going to push for sex. You're worried he's not going to want it. That he's going to lie to you and pretend, and that isn't what you want, but if you stop now to ask for his consent he'll mock you. So you break the kiss and look at him, really have a good look at him, trying to figure out the answer to that dilemma, until his fingers scrabble against your hoodie and you let him unzip it, slip it off your shoulders and drop it to the floor behind you. 

He's the one that kisses first this time, his hands on your neck, and you wrap one arm over his waist and roll onto your back, easily pulling him along on top of you. He winds up straddling your lap and grins against your mouth when he rolls his hips down against you. You hold him still, hands firm on his hips, and he nips your lip, not as hard as usual. 

"What's it gonna take to make you fuck me?" He asks, fingers tightening in your hair for a moment. 

Your sigh is heavily put upon. When is he going to get it? "Can you stop that?" You ask, turning your head away from him. "You mean more to me than a warm squishy tube I can stick my dick in, so stop treating yourself like that." 

His stare is somewhat flabbergasted, maybe it's because you're being so open and honest with him. 

You kiss him once more and close your eyes. For once in your miserable life you're tired. You just want to fall asleep with him and wake up beside him and kiss his neck whilst he sleeps so he squirms just so. You want to witness the honesty of his slumber. 

Unbidden, your fingers creep under the hem of his shirt a fraction, and he takes it as a cue to roll his hips again. Your fingers dig into his waist until he stops. "Stop trying to please me." You grumble. 

There is no response from him to that either, so either he's got nothing to say or too much. Probably the latter, although usually that never stops him. 

A scant amount of shuffling gets him stretched out properly beside you, him in your shirt and his underwear, and you in aught but your trackies. Adding blankets over the top creates a warm secret den for the two of you, with him curled up loosely in your arms. You could just about settle and fall asleep if it weren't for his pervasive and ill-timed questions. 

"Why won't you fuck me?" At least he doesn't sound angry or upset anymore. This is a genuine question. 

So you give him the honest answer, your exhaustion loosening your tongue and tightening your arms. "Because I like you. And I wanna treat you right, even if you think I'm being stupid." You open one eye to look at him for a moment, to see that he's looking at your chest. "And I think I've had quite enough of pretending this doesn't mean anything. So if you really want to have sex we're doing it my way." 

He nods, you can feel it, and then doesn't say another word on the matter. Or any other words at all. 

When you open your eyes you see that his are closed, and his body becomes such a dead weight in your arms that you do believe that he's fallen asleep on you. Rude. 

You're unable to really find this upsetting. And so you just kiss his hair and fall asleep yourself. 

 

On the morrow there's no alarm that wakes you, and for a few minutes as you lay sleepily beside Dave, listening to him breathing shallowly, you think it's the weekend, or you're up before your alarm. Except the light creeping through your curtains is too warm, and then you're seized by such utter panic that you're late for school that you wake Dave when you jerk to get up. 

His arms tighten to strong bindings around your body and you still, opening your mouth to apologise. 

"Go back to sleep." He mumbles. "Your dad came in earlier and took your phone. I think he called you in sick." Of course he doesn't care so much about his education. 

You find yourself restless after that, but Dave sleeps a while longer, so you study him. He looks so fragile when he is so unguarded, lips parted to show his slightly crooked teeth, all the worry lines around his brow gone. His lips look dry and flaky, the corners of his eyes have motes of sleep stuck between his closed lids. Perhaps because he probably didn't eat, his breath doesn't seem to smell bad like yours most likely does. You should brush your teeth and drink some water before coming back to bed. 

Dave's eyelashes are long and pale, they sit against his skin, just, and all of them seem to grow straight without crossing their neighbours. You can see the very slight kink in his nose, and the sparse freckles across his nose and cheekbones. He has more on his shoulders and back than on his face. 

Without real reason to get up you lay there admiring him as he naps, and then, unable to help yourself, you press your lips to his after about half an hour. 

As expected he wakes and shifts, murmurs your name sleepily. His hand skates over your waist and to your hip. 

You don't move, just smile and kiss him again. 

"You better have a good reason for waking me." He warns sternly. There is a distinct lack of force behind his threat. 

"Of course." You reply, voice low and husky in a way his won't be for a few years. You feel him squirm a little, his body pressing closer to yours as you speak. He turns his head into your neck to stifle his yawn. 

"Are you gonna put your money where your mouth is?" He asks, lips brushing across your throat. 

Pretending to mull it over, you hum thoughtfully, one of your hands sliding down his spine to curl around his hips. "If you'll let me." You tease. You know he will, he's desperate to please. 

He officially kisses your neck and slides the hand he still has on your hip under the waistband of your trackies a little, just the fingers. You grip his hip and push him onto his back. He has absolutely no need to touch you just yet. You're cocked and loaded already. 

His pout is disarming, or would be if you weren't determined. "Lemme touch you." He pleads. You stonily ignore him, and skate your fingers down his sides to slip under his shirt. "Don't make me say it." He tacks on, a pathetic warning. 

Your hesitation is for a brief moment before you kiss his neck. Your hands hold his waist easily. 

"Karkat I never touch you." He keeps going. "I've been really selfish," it's too early in the day for such honesty in your opinion, "please let me?" His fingers are still trailing against the fabric of your trackies. 

You remain firm and catch his wrist in hand, and gently press it down against the bed. You don't take your mouth off his skin, leaving a trail of wet kisses down his neck to his collar like stepping stones to map out the garden of his body. At the same time your hands slide up his waist, under the shirt. He's worn his binder all night. 

You'd like him to take it off, you always do, want him to trust you that much to not think of him any differently to see him like that. Your fingers skate against the elastic for a brief moment before settling against his ribs. The question isn't verbalised, but it doesn't need to be. 

Either way he doesn't respond, he doesn't move, scarcely breathes. You push your luck, edge your fingers under the hem ever so slightly, and gently pull it away from his skin, careful not to let it slip and snap back. 

A deep breath in, and then out, and he relaxes curling his body towards you like you're the moon and he's the tide. Except it's the other way around. You follow him about like a lost puppy, caught by his pull. 

Keeping your fingers under the binder you slide the hand to press against his spine, and pull him close, squashed against you. Its twin dips lower to cup his hip, and you roll your body against him from chest to thigh and everything between. He reacts as expected, trying to anticipate your next move and pushing his body against yours obscenely. 

"You're gorgeous." You breathe, lips brushing his. Your fingers worm into the constriction of his binder even further, up the bumps of his spine one by one. He squirms closer and pushes one of his legs between yours. You're not certain if it's to get closer or anchor himself to you, or to try and rub against your dick but you don't stop him this time. 

It takes a moment to free your hand, but when you do you use it to pry his legs apart and slide them up his thighs. It takes a little shuffling to get this right, but soon you're kneeling between his thighs with the tips of your thumbs brushing ever so lightly against soft plush skin, depressing it gently to feel at where he's wet and wanting. There's so much you want to do with him from here. It's almost hard to decide exactly, when all your dick wants is to fall into what you know is welcoming and snug around you, like Dave was made for you. But you can do that later. For now you decide to pin his hips to your bed (you finally have him in your bed and you're not going to screw this up. You're not giving up maybe your only chance to have him squirming and panting in your bed, where you're not worried about the dubiously lumpy spot, or bugs, or Dave's sheets scratching your skin uncomfortably), and give him every possible pleasure he could hope for. 

You don't quite remember getting his underwear off, it happened amidst a myriad of soft kisses and he probably took them off for you, now you think about it. But you're on your belly between his legs, mouth pressed to his thigh where it hangs over your shoulder. His hips twitch a little and in response you hold them tighter. "I'm gonna take care of you." You promise. 

As proof of your pledge, you ghost your mouth over the crease of his thigh, where the skin is softest of all and he groans at how close you come to what he wants so much. One of his heels, the left one, nudges your back, before both of his legs pull you down and closer. 

You have no heart to resist, and with no modicum of delicacy or finesse, you quickly have your mouth pressed right up between his thighs, jaw wide open and tongue out to encompass as much of him as possible. 

His moan is nothing short of delicious, for the brief moment you can hear it before his thighs are pressed tightly over your ears. You have no idea whether anyone else is home and right now you're too busy to care. Like this you can almost pretend that last night's argument had none of the argument. That maybe you just got cold feet and were way more suave and just better in general about the whole thing. That you didn't blame Dave, that you tightened your belt, laced up your boots and took a hike into Serious Relationship Territory. For real this time. 

His fingers twist through your hair and he tugs your head a fraction higher. It's easy to forgive him because you know what it's like to be so desperate and needy, and you like him desperate and needy, you like holding his hips and moaning against his skin and feeling him try to fuck your face. (When he gets the idea that you don't think of him any differently for letting you do this and then forgets the next time he calls you up at two am). 

You resist his pulling fingers, even though he's tugging hard enough to make your eyes water. You're an expert at this, and you want to have him writhing and babbling and you don't even give a shit if anyone is in the house to hear the obscene noises coming from the two of you. There is no punishment your dad can bestow upon you that will make this not worth it. 

Your hard work is very quickly paid off when he goes all quiet and gasps softly, his legs shaking like leaves around your ears. You stop pushing and just lick over him slowly, careful and soft. He tastes so rich and strong now, and you quickly slide your thumb over his cunt, dipping in a fraction, and feel how sopping wet he is. You love it, how he trusts you so much now to relax and enjoy this. When you first started, he'd hardly get wet at all, and he'd be so impatient and desperate to feel like someone wanted him, that you ended up buying lube so he wouldn't hurt himself. 

You make a pitstop at his navel, pressing your face firmly against his stomach to sigh happily, before finally wiping your mouth on the back of your hand and sitting up to look down at him, hands finding homes on the soft insides of his thighs. He slowly opens his eyes to look up at you, chest still rising and falling desperately, mirroring the look in his eyes. 

“I'd ask if you're gonna put your money where your mouth is. Was. But for starters I already used that one, and that's either kinda gross and unsanitary, or means we gotta rename your dick ‘money’.” 

You do not have the heart to shut him up, just keep rubbing his thighs. You wonder if you still have the condoms you were given in class that one time. You might have thrown them out, at the time not seeing a foreseeable use. 

“But you should totally come here and put your dick in me. Morning sex is the bomb and we're only halfway there. Just saying.” 

“Congratulations Dave,” you shift your weight to reach for your bedside table, “You've passed Observational Skills 101. “ A little rummaging reveals a purple condom in darker purple and clear plastic wrap. Good enough. “You now possess the qualifications to participate in the level two course, ‘Pillow Talk; an Introduction’.” That earns you a grin, and you shimmy your trackies down around your thighs before you unwrap the rubber and roll it on in a couple of movements. “But that's gonna have to wait. The professor’s about to fuck his flunking student.” You press your lips to his and rub the tip of your dick against his soft folds, and he groans, probably at your words but you don't care. 

“Do I have to do everything myself, or are you gonna start wielding that thing properly?” He asks when you apparently spend too long just kissing him. 

To be honest, you know this is going to be embarrassingly short, and you don't want it to end quite yet. He’ll have to go home and you'll have to catch up on your school work. 

“Doing this how I want.” You remind him. Remind yourself, really. You cave to his wants way too easily. 

Either way, you lean forwards and sink into him slowly, and groan softly. You muffle it against his cheek, rather ineffectively, and lay your weight carefully over him until your body is pressed right up against his, and your can slide your hands, palms flat on his skin, to his hips. 

You gasp and mouth along his jaw, leaving a wet trail to just under his ear. You'd feel stupid for this affecting you so much, but he seems to be having some sort of spiritual experience judging by his noises and how his legs clamp tightly around your hips. 

You push yourself up a little to look at him, and find him staring back intensely. “All good?” You ask, cupping his face with one hand to rub his cheek with your thumb. He nods and that's all the permission you need to go to town. 

As predicted, it is over rather quickly, and thank god he doesn't seem intent on teasing you about your short fuse. You wind up half laying on him, sweaty and sticky and you slide a hand up the inside of his thigh, fingers brushing lightly over the slick and he sucks in a short breath, so you close your eyes, smiling, and jerk him off lazily until he all but whines and claws at your hand because you won't let up after the third in a row. 

Your dick makes a good effort to get involved again but honestly, you can't be fucked. In the slightest. 

You wipe your hand on his (your) shirt, and strip the condom off to toss it away. 

By the time you're done, he appears to have not moved in the slightest (except apparently he has, skin bare and pale and so fucking gorgeous you want to put your mouth all over it and both of his nipples are pierced too) and this gives you a perfect excuse to resume your position on your stomach by his side, head on his shoulder. 

“Next time,” he mumbles, hand sliding through your hair, your arm lays over his stomach heavily, so you aren't laying on it, “I'm gonna fuck you, okay?” You bite your lip and think about him naked and pressed up against your back, mouth on your shoulder or neck. 

Fuck yes that is happening.


End file.
